


Over My Dead Body

by Anna_banana



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Death, Consensual Somnophilia, Dark, M/M, Necrophilia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rape/Non-con Elements, Relationship(s), crossbones - Freeform, mentions of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 14:31:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17530490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_banana/pseuds/Anna_banana
Summary: “Life doesn’t give you shit and neither will death.”Brock Rumlow has one final job as the commander of STRIKE team before he can be Crossbones. He must deal with the bodies of the team members. He doesn't leave Jack's body with the rest of them.





	Over My Dead Body

**Author's Note:**

> See end of work for detailed notes on this fic. Be wary of the content in the tags.

“It’s fitting,” Brock can’t help but think to himself after Jack’s body is finally recovered from the wreckage. His body is completely mutilated and Brock has a hard time hauling him out and keeping all of the limbs attached. Part of him is glad, it’s fitting that both of their bodies are mangled, ruined, destroyed. He would rather they had both went out in flame together but, as Jack would say, “Life doesn’t give you shit and neither will death.” It fits them well, really.

Brock hasn’t found out yet what they are doing with the remainders of the STRIKE team, he’s not sure he ever will. Whether they will be buried as heros or thrown into the ashes. As long as hydra don’t get a hold of them. One head is cut off and two more grow in its place. The dead are expendable. Brock had always thought he’d agreed. Now he looks different, it makes sense that he thinks different too.

_We mean nothing now._

Brock’s team has been demolished but he has one more job to do as their commander. Find and deal with the bodies. It’s a slow process. Eventually however he manages to find Rollins. He pretends that wasn’t the priority mission. The world is a cunt however and he doesn’t find him until last. Well, he’s missing one final body but that other guy was a useless dick anyway. 

After finding Jack, a rash decision is made. Brock, ‘you’re crossbones now,’ he keeps telling himself; takes the body to a different place from the others.

Rollins wasn’t just anyone, he was his second in command. Brock tries to justify himself and his stomach rolls. He doesn’t belong out there with the others, he belongs with you. And so, Jack’s body finds itself in the dingy basement that he’s holed up in. Habitually, Brock checks the dog tags around the other man’s neck. He was wearing Brock’s as Brock wore his. 

After a moment of hesitation, he releases the cold metal, leaving Jack with the tags he had on. “Good motivation for the other not to fuck up and die,” that was how they justified the switch. If STRIKE members joked that they were the only two men in hydra that could get away with being together, well they got a punch to the face to learn respect, just to set an example of course. A commander deserves respect. 

Brock steps away and stands up suddenly. Some of his bare skin exposed and the sudden movement hurts him all over, his burns searing. “I should take more painkillers,” he thinks to himself. He makes no movement to do so however and finds himself pacing around the body instead. After a half dozen turns he forces himself to stop, body still twitching from the unused movement. Jack would find it funny, he reckons, him pacing around him like a guard dog. That was always more Jack’s style. When they met after all the younger man was practically still a puppy in the team. 

“Lie down,” he says cruelly to Jack’s prone form. Unsurprisingly the body fails to answer. It was already doing as he asked but Brock still takes it as a win, the feeling doesn’t last as long as he hoped it would. 

Brock feels himself wanting to twitch, to move, to do something, anything. He forces himself into a military position. Arms by his side and back ramrod straight. It feels like Jack is staring into his eyes, Brock acts. Despite knowing it’s a waste of his already depleted energy Brock grasps the body, trying not to cringe at the reminder of how cold it is. Jack always burned hot, too hot even. With a grunt he is able to flop the body over into its belly. As ever he wishes Jack was a bit lighter, although he feels even heavier now; even without the purposeful pull of strength away from him.

Even after extensive STRIKE training, Brock was always the more professional at physical or weapons combat. Jack was a natural however and always flung himself at opponents in a way that made him dangerous and unpredictable. Until Rogers came along the two of them always won, individually or together. 

Brock regrets the effort he put into hauling The body onto its stomach. He now has the odd sensation that Jack has eyes on the back of his head. He’s unsure why that would matter, it’s not like Jack could see with them now, even if it were true.

In a moment of impulse Brock throws his only covers over the body and walks away. Jack seems to taunt him for being a coward, it’s almost enough to make him walk back but he forces himself to keep going.

He heads towards his kitchen, which otherwise known as the box on the floor containing anything that could be described as food or a drink. Brock forces down some kind of gross nutri-liquid. It tastes like bile. The mushy drink forces its way down his throat despite his stomach’s protests. Even internally he feels the scorching sear of his burns and is unable to face the cereal bar packets just yet. He takes stock and tries to ignore that he won’t have a choice much longer. At the bottom of a plastic bottle Brock still has the dregs of some kind of chemical tasting alcohol, he has no clue what it is, the label completely faded. He tries to take small sips to stretch the booze further but he can’t avoid taking a large gulp. 

“I deserve that today,” he reckons, pretending that isn’t the case every day. Brock considers putting it in his nutri-drink next time, the burn surely not helping his inability to force down food and liquids. Brock would rather have his one good thing a day however, even if it does leave him at risk of starvation. Maybe it could be like a mission, both Brock and Jack’s bodies fading away together. Rollins died his fighting death however and Brock as his... well as his commander the least he can do is the same. Try and offer some vengeance if he can. People will believe the fight is for him. Maybe he can believe it too. That he isn’t living for a dead man.

After his ‘meal’ exhaustion begins to sink deep into his bones. It’s late and he has been awake for days, too busy dealing with the STRIKE teams remains and body too painful to want to lie on it. At that thought, he wakes up slightly, not yet prepared to fall into an agonising and fitful sleep. He is tired though and after a moment of indecision he decides to lie next to Jack. Overly cautious, he makes sure to face away and not touch the body.

It calms his mind slightly, lying in bed with the other man not an unusual occurrence. The feeling of being worried about his injuries, supplies and everything else that comes next ebbs away. Instead it is replaced by a warm thrum in his veins, ‘Jack, Jack, Jack’. His body reacts to the man next to him, a Pavlovian impulse, blood flows from his head and travels downwards.

“Shit,” Brock mutters to himself darkly. 

He braces himself on the palm of his hand before flipping over onto his back. He regrets it immediately, realising he has prescribed himself to a night of tossing and turning. He’s never been like Jack, able to simply lie in one spot and fall asleep immediately. It’s more true now than ever he can’t help but to joke. Brock peels his eyes open, it takes a great effort, the lids sealed with exhaustion. He begins acquiescing to another sleepless night, _unless…_

Brock digs into his energy stores once more. Forcing his body to turn towards Jack. The other man still lies face down, exactly as Brock had left him, he’s unsure why that would be a surprise. He always slept, prone form and Brock could almost believe that the other man is fast asleep. Despite the things he’s let his second in command do to him before he’s unsure whether that idea makes him feel more or less weird about his train of thought right now. 

His hand pulls over his face wearily, careful not to catch the skin and Brock realises he has already accepted what he’s about to do. He glances over at his crossbones helmet for a moment before looking away. Jack deserves his face, he always has, even when one of them looks ugly and bruised. Things now aren’t actually so different. 

At first he tries to remove the uniform with his eyes closed. The body feels so different to Rollins however that he has to force his eyes to open. Confirm to himself that the person he is doing this too really is his partner. He’s unsure whether it’s due to his growing nausea or growing impatience but he decides to simply push Jack’s trousers and underwear down enough for access, leaving the rest of his clothes on. In an act of solidarity Brock too only pushes his clothes down the near minimum. Before now he didn’t even notice he had went to bed with them on. 

He pauses for a moment before grimacing and spitting on his hand, he thanks fuck that the burns don’t quite reach that area. He shoves a couple of fingers into Jack gracelessly, just enough to give himself a slightly easier entrance, what with the lack of lube in his possession. The motions almost remind him of times he and Jack have fucked after having a fight. He forces the picture out of his mind however, the image all wrong. If that was the case Jack would be fighting back, making him work for it.

Frustrated at his own thoughts he thrusts in hard and groans at the tight, dry heat surrounding him. There’s a pause where he waits for Jack to curse out, for his body to adjust, it doesn’t happen. Feeling more anger than necessary for a dead man, he pulls out and slams back in, and again and again and again. The blood rush is deafening and he barely hears himself moan as a result. For a few moments he can pretend it’s why he doesn’t hear Jack.

It’s over embarrassingly quickly, another deep thrust and he stays put. He comes in Jack but it is mostly dry, another reminder of his lack of nutrition. Brock can almost be grateful his second in command is dead. He knows he would be teased mercilessly by Rollins after a performance like that. He pulls out with a grimace and wipes himself on the sheets before pulling his trousers back up. Indecision grasps him when he looks back over at Jack. In the end, he leaves the other man’s pants down. Jack can have the covers though.

Brock’s eyes finally flutter close. It feels like forever since he’s gotten a good rest. He’s determined to link that to having sex and not to the body that’s lying beside him. As he drifts off, Brock finally feels able to form a plan to deal with Rogers and the Avengers, perhaps even to deal with himself as well. In a moment of rare sentimentality, he decides to throw an arm over the body next to him. He decides he’ll get rid of him another day, eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Fairly graphic descriptions of Brock having sex with Jack's body after he has died.   
> It is also very briefly implied that Jack had consensual somnophilic sex while Brock was asleep.


End file.
